


Conjuncto Somnius

by amanitamuscaria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanitamuscaria/pseuds/amanitamuscaria
Summary: Dreams don't always come true.Written for the Snarry-A-Thon 2012.





	

**Conjuncto Somnius**  

  
  
“I’m worried, Severus.”  
  
“I cannot say that I am surprised, Headmaster.”  
  
“About the boy,” Dumbledore gave him a stern look over his glasses.  
  
“I repeat, you do not surprise me.”  
  
“Has Voldemort ever mentioned his incursions into the boy’s mind to you?”  
  
“No. He has been silent on that matter.”  
  
“I fear – well, I suspect it was more than Parseltongue that was transferred to the boy.”  
  
Snape’s black eyes glitter, but he says nothing.  
  
“Severus, I need you to view Harry’s dreams. He has nightmares; you know this.”  
  
“Of course; where he misses the snitch, or a photographer captures him looking foolish …”  
  
“It is much more than that, as you well know. If Voldemort is in his mind when he is sleeping, it would be prudent for us to know what he is doing there.”  
  
“If the Dark Lord can find anything in the boy’s mind to meddle with, I would be astonished.”  
  
“Nevertheless, I would have you investigate this.”  
  
“As you wish.”

* * * * *

  
The brewing is long, though not overly complex; meanwhile, Severus observes the boy sink under the expectations of the adults, the children surrounding him. He seizes his moment when Potter is once more brought to the Hospital Wing to add the vial to the clutch of regenerative potions he doses the boy with.  
  
Pomfrey watches him carefully administer the various draughts, and when he asks her for a basin to collect some phlegm, she glances at him, but goes to get it, leaving him with Potter who is now in a half-asleep daze, though not so far gone that he can’t glare a muzzied defiance at him.  
  
Snape thinks if he really were the Dark Lord’s, how easy would they all make this.  
  
He stares into the green eyes, seeing himself as a distorted reflection in the lens; plucks the glasses away, then stares again.  
  
“ _Ostendo somnium_ ,” he intones, keeping his gaze fixed on Potter’s eyes. The eyes that are so like Lily’s after the incident with the Marauders, after he’d spat that word at her.  
  
Something unclenches in Potter, and the green eyes no longer glare hate at him, but are softer, vulnerable, closer to sleep. He’d never seen that look in Lily’s eyes. Potter would have, though. Potter’s lashes, black as his father’s, sit strangely round Lily’s green eyes.   
  
He nods at Poppy, “He is nearly asleep,” and collects the unnecessary sample.  
  
She nods back, approaches, no doubt to tuck the Saviour in. Snape, realising he’s still holding the boy’s glasses, hands them to her.

* * * * *

  
Back in the dungeons, he prepares for the receipt of the boy’s dreams, his subconscious thoughts.  
  
He lays himself on the couch and speaks the ‘ _Visum_ ’ spell, unsure what he is about to experience. He lies stiffly, arms at his sides, staring up at the ceiling, as slowly, gradually, the light seems to fade and darkness overtakes him. He would think it's the candles burning out, perhaps the house-elves dimming them as he drifts into sleep, but he also feels a terrible aching coldness and a despairing loneliness. He shakes himself, stalks into the bedroom and climbs into bed, pulling the heavy blankets closely about him. The cold and darkness draw in again once he settles, and he imagines this is why the potion and spell are little used. It would take a pressing necessity to make someone endure this. He hopes Potter's dreams will be worth the discomfort. He wonders if Dumbledore knows the price he's paying for this information. His innate timing seems to be out, and he's not sure how long he's been lying here, suffering, when movement begins in the grey mist surrounding him. The location seems familiar, and yet, not. Huge things, invisible when looked at directly, swim at the corners of his vision. They are indefinably threatening, the more so in that he can't quite see them, can't see how near or far they are. Some twitch away from his direct sight, others melt into shadows. One dark form seems to coalesce by his shoulder, swelling and shrinking in a slow, dreadful rhythm. It pales and pales from the dark grey mist, and he finally makes out a grotesque nose, cold black eyes, teeth that snarl and snaggle as the thing opens its mouth, the teeth growing longer, razor-sharp. He puts up a thin, weak hand to ward the thing off, tries to shrink away, but he feels so small and puny, he is perched on a stool miles from the floor, and he can feel his eyes open wide, his mouth stretch in a soundless scream.  
  
Severus sits up suddenly in his bed, realising what, who the apparition is, knowing where he's been in Potter's dream. His eyes narrow as he considers - the boy cannot know his dream would be shared. In any case, Potter has little control over his waking thoughts, so imagining he could have any intent in producing this dream is not possible. He gets up to pour himself a stiff drink. He's still cold from the whole experience, and knows he will get no rest without distancing himself from Potter's miasma of a mind. He carefully notes down the dream in the pocket-book he has laid out for that purpose, then clears his mind, finishes his drink, and sleeps.  
  
In Potions class the next day, he glares and baits Potter, hovering near his shoulder, watching the square, capable hands start to fumble with the preparation. When Potter's potion starts to produce violet smoke, he sneers at the boy, "Failed again, Potter? Pity your fame can't make up for your hopelessness in class," and  _Evanesco_ ’s the mixture.  
  
The green eyes are sharp with defiance and anger, and he finds that comforting. It is more comforting than the lifeless, dull look those eyes have borne recently. He tries to recall when the change occurred. He’s been observing the boy, watching over Potter for too long to allow him to slip away.

* * * * *

  
Severus tries again the next night, prudently establishing himself in his bed before speaking the ‘ _Visum_ ’, Firewhiskey and glass to hand.  
  
The experience begins the same, with the cold and dark loneliness drawing about him, the corners of the room seeming to hide twitching, lurking, threatening shapes.  
  
The darkness doesn’t lift this time, but stays, cold and muffling, shutting off not just his sight, but sound as well. It feels horrifyingly suffocating, and when he feels the brush of something against his arm, he startles before reassuring himself that he is in Potter’s dream.  
  
The brush turns into a pinch, a cuff, a shove, and he feels himself being assaulted by unseen hands, and he cannot seem to escape, cannot stop the small hurts raining down on him.  
  
The darkness smothers, and the pinches and pushes and punches attack him in an endless irritation.  
  
He sees the flash of a white calf, half-hidden by torn tan trousers, blood trickling down. The calf is large and meaty, but then becomes slender and the ragged trouser, black.   
  
The large man with the torn trouser leg turns and snarls, looms over him with raised hand, and morphs into Snape snarling, back to the man, Snape, man, Snape, until Severus is dizzy with the morphing.  
  
He opens his eyes, gasping, in his bed with the warm blankets, the brown hangings, the light softly flickering over the spines of his books.  
  
He feels his supper roiling in his stomach, and barely makes it to the bathroom in time.

* * * * *

  
When the Headmaster asks him, the next morning at breakfast, “Have you made any progress?” he is able to report, “He is afraid of the dark.”  
  
“Of course; that is not at all strange. Any hint of direct – ah – interference?”  
  
“None.”  
  
“Well, do continue to keep an eye on the situation, won’t you?”  
  
He swoops down on the boy and his two shadows outside the Great Hall; “No classes to get to? You really can’t afford to lose any more points from Gryffindor, can you, Potter?”  
  
The boy glares at him wearily, as though he’s just going through the motions.  
  
He will not be dismissed so lightly.  
  
“What is your tie doing up by your ear? You two – off to your classes. Potter – tidy yourself up. You look like a stray mongrel.”  
  
Ah – that hits home. He smirks as he gets a proper angry look. The boy waves his two companions on, slowly does up the top button and hitches up the tie.  
  
“I hadn’t realised,  _Sir_ , that you were on Hall Monitor duties.”  
  
“Upholding the standards of the school is everyone’s responsibility. But I shouldn’t expect you to understand – slipshod dress, shoddy work, a slapdash approach to life.”  
  
“As much life as I’m likely to have, it won’t make any difference.”  
  
“Poor Potter. Use what time you have wisely, not wallowing in self-pity. Now, get off to your class. You’re late.”  
  
Potter hesitates a moment, but wisely decides against a retort, turns and dashes off.   
  
  
  
Severus is not certain what drives him to repeat the performance the very next night, but he makes his preparations as before, establishing himself in his bed.  
  
Once again, his excursion into Potter’s mind begins in cold darkness, with a queasy ache, as though he’d been  _Crucio_ ’d the day before and the pain had settled into his bones. He moves restlessly against the constriction around him, the cold seeping into him, sapping his feeling of himself, his will.  
  
The sound slowly surfaces, starting so softly he doesn’t notice it at first, until he is suddenly aware of it.  
  
It’s a cold, hard rasping, and he knows he’s heard it before, as he feels the cold sweat start on his skin, but he can’t place it, can’t identify where or when he’s heard this.  
  
He does know though, that the sound will not result in anything but pain and fear.  
  
A low hissing, and he suddenly knows, with a dropping stomach, what it is.  
  
“ _Sssstay, Nagini_.”

* * * * *

  
The boy is distracted, inattentive in class the next day, resulting in a spectacular but harmless explosion, and Severus takes a small satisfaction in rapping out, “Remain behind, Potter!” at the end of the lesson.  
  
“You will stay, and clear up the mess your carelessness has caused,” he barks.  
  
The boy glares up, his eyes red-rimmed, dark in the hollows of his eye-sockets.  
  
Well, at least, if Severus must suffer the boy’s nighttime frights, he will not be the only one made to suffer.  
  
The boy throws sullen looks at him as he wipes down his desk, the floor, and everywhere else the exploding potion has reached.  
  
He avoids meeting Potter’s glances, concentrating on marking the pitiful excuses the class offer as essays.  
  
He is considering a particularly fine turn of words, Granger of course, tapping his lip with the quill, when he becomes aware the tidying has stopped.  
  
He focuses to find the boy staring warily at him.  
  
“Well? Have you finished? Then get out, before I find more work for you.”  
  
Potter frowns, hesitates momentarily, then grabs his book-bag and walks out, giving him a very odd look.

* * * * *

  
Severus suspects he has become addicted to the strange landscape of Potter’s nighttime mind.  
  
He settles into his bed again, prepared for the lonely dark and cold, but feeling the shock of it nevertheless.  
  
They are back in the distorted classroom again, perched on that unfeasibly tall stool, the bench in front of him covered in the seething mud-brown mixture of Potter’s spoiled potion, appearing smooth, then suddenly curdled, crisping and bubbling at the edges.  
  
The edges where two long pale hands rest.  
  
The low hissing starts, and Severus fears he is in for another visitation from the Dark Lord, but the sibilants don’t bring him out in a cold sweat, but a shiver of anticipation.  
  
Puzzled, he tries to focus on the words, but they slide and twist like serpents, slipping out of reach each time he thinks to have captured their meaning.  
  
His own hands, puny and pale, ineffectually wipe at the spreading brown mixture, edging closer and closer to the larger thin-fingered ones to either side of him.  
  
He is desperate to keep his mess from touching the fingers, and yet, his own hands long to slide closer to the strong fingers.  
  
He feels the warm breath puffing words in his ear, and with a shock, he suddenly hears the plosive, “Potter”.  
  
He feels the exquisite torture of being surrounded, berated, and yet – and yet – of being seen; being seen for what he truly is.  
  
Severus jerks himself out of the dream with a gasp.  
  
This isn’t what he wanted to discover.

* * * * *

  
He corners the Headmaster after breakfast, follows him up the winding staircase to the office.  
  
“The boy – has unhealthy obsessions.”  
  
“You must observe, Severus, and do as you see fit. I trust no one else with this.”

* * * * *

  
The dreams of long fingers – how could he not have recognised his own hands? – his own voice? – continue.  
  
He tries to put a distance between himself and the boy, recognising that he has, perhaps, focused rather too obviously upon him.   
  
He baits the other Gryffindors, needles the boy’s friends.  
  
There is little satisfaction to be had there.  
  
Longbottom stutters and drops things, Weasley’s ears flush an unattractive maroon, clashing with his hair.  
  
He snaps at Granger, “Only twice as long an essay than I asked for? Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than read your ramblings?”  
  
The girl meets his eyes coolly, eyebrows slightly raised, but does not answer. The essay had, in fact, been the only relief in a long evening’s drudgery of marking.  
  
He notes the three heads huddled together at the Gryffindor table, and there are plenty of angry looks thrown his way.  
  
But he feels the shiver of excitement when the boy glares at him, and despairs.  
  
He is, it seems, inextricably bound to the boy in hatred.  
  
Better that, though, than the alternative, and he has his suspicions there.

* * * * *

  
He settles to his task, speaks the ’ _Visio_ ’ spell, and sinks into the cold darkness. He idly wonders that Potter should perceive himself as so small and weak, when he starts making out looming shapes.  
  
If this is going to be another of the indistinct threatening dreams, he might pull out and save himself the bother –  
  
The shapes solidify into gravestones in the mist, and Wormtail is carrying something. Something horrible.  
  
He is unable to move, as the boy standing next to him is killed.  
  
Everything is very slow, every moment is stretched to painfulness.  
  
The cauldron, large enough to contain an adult, sparks and spits malevolently, red and white into the portentous night.  
  
Wormtail cringes and scurries. The cloaked and hooded figures tower over him, and he feels small and weak, and so very helpless.  
  
The masked figures fire unknown spells at him, and he shrinks, becomes weaker, smaller, but never small enough to escape, never insignificant enough not to be seen.  
  
Wormtail alternates between cringing, begging for his life, and firing curses from his silver hand.  
  
The Death Eaters laugh, shove him around the circle with their spells, let him run only to reel him back again.  
  
He hears, but does not understand the calls, the jeers, the mocking.  
  
He struggles to lift the dead boy, but is pulled back into the circle again and again, clutching the corpse whose eyes stare up at him accusingly.

* * * * *

  
Dumbledore, calmly sitting listening to Severus’s opinion of Potter’s mind, says, “You must teach the boy Occlumency.”  
  
“Have you not been listening, Albus? The boy is deranged! I am in danger of losing my own sanity if I have further, closer contact with Potter!”  
  
“You must give the boy the tools he needs to fend off these nightmares with Occlumency. I believe most of what you are describing is the result of Riddle’s incursions.”  
  
“I don’t believe exposing me to more contact with Potter is sensible,” Severus tries to explain.  
  
“You are the only person who can do this.”  
  
“But I don’t trust myself, I don’t believe that I can keep the boy from harm.”  
  
“Ah, but  _I_  trust you to do what is necessary; I leave it entirely in your capable hands.”  
  
Severus glances down at the long slender hands, the hands that appear, over and over, in Potter’s dreams.  
  
“You do not understand; I’m afraid Potter and I – ”  
  
“You must put aside animosity and work together to defeat Voldemort. Harry will not be able to do it on his own. I have every confidence that together, you two can do this.”  
  
“What is to become of the boy? Is he really the one to defeat the Dark Lord?”  
  
Dumbledore looks at him sharply, then nods, “I believe he is the only one who can do it.”  
  
“But – a boy? When neither you, nor any number of adult witches or wizards have succeeded?”  
  
“Just so. Harry has powers that are great, ones which Voldemort has no defense against, does not even imagine to exist. Harry is the one.”  
  
He stares at the Headmaster. When he’d first come to Dumbledore, he’d been offered a penance, and had obeyed every order. But this – this using of the boy is entirely too cold-blooded. He sees his own journey to the place he stands now repeated, and something tightens within him.

* * * * *

  
When he answers the door, Potter is standing there, looking rebellious, anxious, and – what?  
  
“I do not recall assigning you a detention, -“  
  
“The Headmaster ordered me to come and see you,” Potter cuts him off abruptly.  
  
“And did the Headmaster also instruct you to interrupt me? Ten points from Gryffindor.”  
  
The boy bares his teeth, hits the doorjamb with his fist, but swallows his retort.  
  
“The Headmaster wishes you to learn Occlumency, so you might block the Dark Lord’s access to your mind.”  
  
“Yeah. That. But –“  
  
“Do NOT interrupt. Currently, you have an open conduit from your mind to the Dark Lord’s. You have images which he has planted in your mind,” he stops suddenly, wondering if this has been a plot to drive both him and the boy insane, but dismisses it; not even the Dark Lord is so insidious.  
  
“We will commence your lessons tonight. You will inform anyone who questions you, that you are receiving remedial Potions instruction.”  
  
“WHAT?!”  
  
“You have expressed a desire to become an Auror? Then, it is only too apparent that you need additional tutoring in Potions. Every Tuesday at seven.”  
  
Potter looks furious, and Severus manages to hide a smirk, mostly.  
  
“You will clear your mind. It should not be too difficult.”  
  
“Wait. Before we start –“  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
The boy blushes, looks down at his feet.  
  
Oh, surely not – Potter wouldn’t make an admission –  
  
“I – the reason I went to Professor Dumbledore was that I was getting these dreams –“  
  
“Yes. That is why we are here.”  
  
“No – just listen for a moment, will you? The dreams – they’re not mine, I don’t think.”  
  
“And whose do you imagine they might be?”  
  
“I don’t know – they’re – “ the boy is turning even redder – “I’m getting Marked,” he finally manages to stutter.  
  
It is not what Severus expected to hear.  
  
Potter pushes his sleeve up, rubs at the inside of his arm, where the Dark Mark would be. The arm is red, as though he has been scratching at it.  
  
“The Dark Lord may be putting that dream into your mind.”  
  
“Vol-” Severus hisses, “Alright; the Dark Lord, then – but he never marked himself, did he? This is – I feel the fear, and anticipation, and pain.”  
  
“Any other dreams that are not yours?”  
  
Potter shakes his head, too quickly. No matter, it will all be revealed soon enough.  
  
“You will tell me if you get further – intrusive dreams. Now, as to the Occlumency. You will be shielding your mind from the Dark Lord’s, and anyone else’s intrusions. There are few that are capable of Occlumency or its counterpart, Legilimency. The Headmaster, myself, the Dark Lord.”  
  
Potter nods.  
  
“You will clear your mind, and I will attempt to breach your defenses.”  
  
Potter looks at him, he raises his wand and says, “ _Legilimens_.”  
  
All the images he’s seen in those dreams assault him once again. Oddly, the cold dark loneliness is still there, running like a black background thread behind the string of images of the man, the boy, the woman – Tuney, he remembers, sneering. A large woman, vicious like her dog, so that he wonders initially if she is an Animagus. And the long hands, thin-fingered and potions-stained. The low voice, caressing and spitting.  
  
He pulls out of Potter’s mind, sees the boy crouched on the floor holding his head.  
  
“Well. Not very successful. You must blank your mind, empty it of all thought. Not such a difficult task for you, I would have thought?”  
  
Potter scrambles to his feet, glaring at him, jaw set.  
  
“Again.”  
  
He slides into the boy’s mind with no effort; the images of the miserable family repeat, he sees the hands and the voice hissing and murmuring again.  
  
Potter is on the floor, clutching his head again.  
  
“You are not trying. The Dark Lord will find you easy prey.”  
  
“You’re not telling me how!”  
  
“Clear your mind of all your thoughts and emotions. That is how! You will practice each night before falling asleep. I will know if you aren’t doing it. Tuesday, next week, at seven.”  
  
Potter storms out.

* * * * *

  
That night, Severus is crouched on a vast black plain, while around him crows flap and caw, pecking at him. The flurry of black coalesces and becomes a looming presence bated over him, hissing and muttering, stabbing needle-sharp at his head, his eyes. It hurts, and yet somehow, is comforting too. The long white hands hover near, the black body is not touching, but is bent close enough to feel the warmth, is a different quality than the black of the plain. The white hands offer the promise of relief from the pain, yet never provide it.

* * * * *

  
“You are not trying, Potter!”  
  
The boy is crouched on the floor, holding his head, glaring up at him.  
  
“I  _am_  trying,” he mumbles defiantly, “You’re not telling me how to do it.”  
  
“Get up! Clear your mind!”  
  
He pushes again, and the images, at first the same, suddenly turn into the curve of the boy’s ear, the neck, tanned, with stray curls of black hair, the green eyes half-closed, the hands gripping, the mouth open – he thinks, in agony, or – perhaps - not. He pulls out abruptly.  
  
“What was that?” he hisses venomously at the boy huddled on the floor.  
  
“What?”  
  
“That – last image?”  
  
“Don’t know. One of the dreams that aren’t mine,” the boy mutters.  
  
“What is it doing in your head, Potter?”  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe Voldemort fancies me?”  
  
“You idiot! You are wasting my time! You have no idea – you – out! Get out!” he is incoherent with anger.  
  
When Potter has fled, he is still shaking. At least, the hands, the so-identifiable hands hadn’t been there. But maybe in other dreams they had been? No, Potter had assumed it was the Dark Lord. And Potter had recognised the sexual nature of the dream. Where had the dreams come from, if not from him? He has studied the boy, watched his dreams – has the spell been working the other way, too? He will have no more to do with the boy. It’s finished. Over.

* * * * *

  
The Headmaster’s eyes flick between him and Potter in the Great Hall, but he doesn’t question Severus. Perhaps he talks to the boy. Severus is guarded when observing Potter, careful not to let Potter notice. The boy seems to be watching him as much as he’d watched Potter up to now. The boy’s two shadows hover and chatter, looking worried. Potter ignores them, moving like a planet with two attendant moons.   
  
He feels the boy slipping from his grasp, and knows there is nothing he can do. He dares not visit the dreams, not if Potter is seeing his dreams in return. He can’t take that risk, so is trapped, cursing and watching the boy fade.  
  
A week later, the boy stays behind. As his classmates, his friends, his enemies file out, he stays, hunched over his bag on the table.  
  
“Potter. Get out. Class is over.”  
  
“Snape – Professor –”  
  
He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to know.  
  
“Get out.”  
  
Suddenly, the boy is standing in front of him; he starts up from his desk.  
  
Students do not approach him. Students are careful to keep the desk between themselves and him.  
  
“Potter –,” he says in warning, but the boy flings himself at him.  
  
“I hate you! I hate you so much,” he sobs, striking Severus’s chest, yet clinging to him at the same time.  
  
“Yes. I hate you, too,” he says, unable, quite, to push him away.  
  
“You’re horrible. You’re horrible to everyone, you’re horrible to my friends, you’re horrible to me.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
Potter is now clinging more than hitting, and Severus finds he is holding the boy tentatively, and he silently wards the door.  
  
This does not need to be seen by either his house or Potter’s friends.  
  
Potter inhales, a long, shuddering wet sound.  
  
“I hate you almost as much as I hate me.”  
  
“Do you? I don’t believe you hate me as much as I hate me.”  
  
There’s a snort, and Potter is holding a handful of snot. He stands helplessly, staring down at his hand.  
  
“ _Evanesco_ ,” Severus says.   
  
“You weren’t planning on doing anything with that, were you?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.  
  
Potter snorts, more cautiously, “No. Nothing like that.”  
  
The green eyes lift up to meet his, wary, tentative, but not dull or dead.  
  
Severus finds he’s pleased by the change.  
  
“Recovered?”  
  
“Hm. They’re your dreams, aren’t they?” the boy says seriously, “That’s why you were so angry.”  
  
Severus says nothing; anything he says would be damning.  
  
“Why am I seeing your dreams? Or I was – they’ve stopped now.”  
  
Potter stares at him, and Severus wants to duck so that his hair would curtain his face, but that would be an admission. It doesn’t matter, as Potter reads him anyways.   
  
“You were seeing my dreams too, weren’t you.”  
  
There is no escape from Potter’s gaze. Severus tries a sneer, but it’s a pitiful thing.  
  
“Was this a part of Occlumency? No, it started earlier than that. You were spying on my dreams.”  
  
Severus makes an involuntary small movement, and Potter’s eyes widen.  
  
“The Headmaster. Professor Dumbledore told you to, didn’t he. Before the Occlumency.”  
  
The boy reaches out, watching him carefully, touches him in the center of his chest, the hand slides around to his side in a caress.  
  
“You know, I think I don’t really hate you so very much.”  
  
“No? You have managed a convincing imitation, then.”  
  
“As you have, I think. No, wait, don’t -” Potter says, staring earnestly up into his face, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I just meant – um. Tom Riddle said, in the Chamber of Secrets, that he and I were very alike, that we had many similarities. But I don’t think so. I think you and I, that we’re alike. ”  
  
Severus looks at him and wonders, wonders at someone who cannot see how very different they are, at a boy who could believe he is as ugly and horrible as himself.  
  
“You – you should go now.”  
  
“Mm. I think, you know, I think I need to stay?”  
  
“That is not a good idea.”  
  
Potter moves closer, pressing himself to Severus.  
  
“I think – you’ve seen in my mind. You know. And you don’t, you’ve never – I thought, when you saw that, you would use it against me. You never did.”  
  
Severus clears his throat, “No. The Headmaster …”  
  
“The Headmaster has been pushing me towards you the whole year.”  
  
Severus stares into the green, feeling the belief the boy has, reflecting his own suspicions, and remains silent.  
  
“You haven’t got anyone, either. I mean, Ron and Hermione, they don’t really know. I hope they never will. But you – you’ve been where I must go.”  
  
It is worse than the Dark Arts, Voldemort, Dumbledore; this is more tempting than anything he’s ever been presented with.  
  
The boy’s hands move up to his shoulders.  
  
“I’ve dreamed of this, for so very long.”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”  
  
“I think – I’m asking for what you give me.”  
  
“And what do you imagine that is ?”  
  
“You see me. You see me as what I am.”  
  
“I think you are deluded in that. No, not that I don’t see you, but in what you believe you are.”  
  
“Well, then, will you show me?”  
  
He wonders how he manages to get himself into these things.  
  
The boy looks fragile, practically in his arms, face turned hopefully up, but wary still, ready to flee if he is rejected.  
  
He thinks about the Headmaster, telling him the boy – this boy, Lily’s son – would have to kill. Playing him like a violin, pulling and tugging him into position, then leaving him with this boy, here, now; this boy who’s been played just as effectively.  
  
He brings his hands lightly to the boy’s waist.  
  
He might be damned by the rest of the world, but the hope that shines from Potter’s eyes is absolution enough for him.  
  
“Potter. You must not imagine I am the best you can hope for.”  
  
“But why not? Who else would I want?”  
  
He brings his face to the soft, fine hair, “Anyone you want. Anyone at all,” he whispers.

* * * * *

  
“You must not think of this,” he motions between them, “As anything more than a physical release, a – comfort, if you will.”  
  
And since when has he ever been a comfort to any of his students? But he fears – Potter is the least likely boy to be able to separate his emotions from a coupling. Almost any student, if he’d ever considered such a thing, would have been a less-fraught choice. But there has been no choice as far as Potter was concerned. He suspects it was not even Dumbledore’s manipulations that had resulted in them lying here together, but a mad, capricious fate, laughing hysterically as they had twisted and raged fruitlessly at each other.   
  
He grimaces at the thought, and Potter’s hand slides slowly to rest over the patch of black hair on his chest. At least the boy has learnt to be silent. At least there should be no lasting damage, as one or the both of them will not survive much longer. He is suddenly furious that this boy, Lily’s boy, might perish, with no choice, without knowing he’s had no choice. He twists suddenly, so the boy is beneath him, biting fiercely, hungrily at the juncture of neck and shoulder, running his hand roughly down the side flexing under him, all clean, firm muscle; finding the boy swiftly hardening as his hand reaches its goal.  
  
At least he can give him this solace, the solace of a soldier at the front line – he stops that thought and concentrates on wringing as much pleasure as he can from the boy this last time. 

* * * * *

  
He is shocked when he awakes in the infirmary, Potter sitting by his bed looking as though he’s just come from the battlefield.  
  
“Faugh! Potter, at least wash before you come visiting the injured!” he croaks.  
  
The smile which lights up the boy’s eyes is tired, hopeful, and entirely too adult.  
  
“We’re both alive. Both of us. Survived. Voldemort – didn’t.”  
  
He stares into Potter’s green eyes, reading the memory of the battle, whilst subconsciously tallying the score of his injuries and hardening his heart.  
  
He could, if pressed, stand up, but probably not walk or Apparate at this moment.  
  
“You’re not going anywhere yet,” Potter states, as if reading his thoughts.  
  
“No,” he agrees, “But I will go soon.”  
  
Potter searches his face, but does not plead or argue. He just repeats, softly, “We both survived.”  
  
“And, having done so, I intend to continue to survive. Think for once, Potter. I have made countless enemies, on all sides in this war.”  
  
“Hm. That’s why you’re in here, away from everyone. Madam Pomfrey knows, no one else. I’ll talk to Shacklebolt, he’s interim Minister. I’ll tell him what happened.”  
  
Severus sighs wearily, “It won’t make any difference. Listen to me!” He says sharply, when Potter seems likely to interrupt. “It will not be just the Ministry. It will not just be Death Eaters who will feel I betrayed them. It will not just be family and friends of those lost to the Death Eaters.”  
  
Potter bows his head over their joined hands. When had he taken his hand?  
  
“I will disappear. You will grant me the thing I most desire. You will learn to live, to do mundanely useful things. Find someone to love, who will love you. Start a family. Become ordinary, and live!”  
  
“Will you not ask what I most desire?”  
  
He shakes his head slowly, “No. You will obey me in this.”  
  
The boy looks at him. “Please, will you let me know how-“  
  
“No. You will not hear from me. Go. Now.”  
  
Potter stares at him for a long moment, then stands and walks out.  
  
When Poppy comes in later, he’s managed to dress, and is seated, waiting for her.  
  
She sighs, “I suppose it’s useless telling you to wait until you recover a little?”  
  
He inclines his head; they’ve had an understanding forged over many years.  
  
“I have put together some of your healing and blood replenishment potions,” she gives him a small clutch of bottles. “Severus, will you let me know -”  
  
“No.”  
  
She places a gentle hand on his arm. “Go safely, and if you need anything …”  
  
“Thank you; I will manage.”  
  
She opens the small fireplace, he casts the floo powder and steps in.

  


-The End-

  



End file.
